Addiction to your Cure
by theArcheops
Summary: Highschool AU. Caitlin Snow is lost - depressed and suicidal. Barry Allen is gone - insane and homicidal. All she ever wanted was to be ended and all he was ever good at was ending things. When the two meet, they begin to see the beauty in opposition. She was his addiction and he was her cure. Graphic Trigger Warning. Dark!SnowBarry
1. Chapter 1

**1**

'Depressed' isn't the right term to describe me but it's the first term that comes to mind. I wonder why.

School - the bane of every existing teen in the world. I hated that I had to go to that place, 5 days in a week, and associate with people who I couldn't give a single crap about; to endure long hours of other people gossiping about their meaningless lives; to be in a crowd full of attention whores; to be under authority. Authority is such a below the belt excuse for people to show off how much power they have. It's pathetic why we all want something as dull as power.

"Caitlin, sweetie, get down, breakfast is served!" My mom yelled from below. Clutching the comforter even tighter, I pulled it over my head and groaned loudly. Why? Why would I need to go to school? Can't I just be home-schooled or something? Besides, I was suicidal, someone who would probably die around her 20s at the tip of a well-sharpened blade; where would that knowledge even go? They always decide that children should learn this and that, but what's the point?

I knew enough already. Or a lot more than 'enough'; depends on how you measure enough.

The only thing that keeps me from completely giving up on education is my gory desire to learn about life, what keeps it going on and on without being a screwed up mess. Sighing, I climbed out of my bed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. My attire, as usual, came in the form of a long-sleeved shirt with some really loose jeans and a pair of flat shoes. I never was one to dress up with my entirety showing. I picked up an old bag hiding at the bottom of my bed and shoved in a notebook, a pen, a cutter, and a pack of cigarettes. I caressed the fabric of the bag and allowed myself a little smile. "Cait!"

"Coming!" Hurriedly walking down the stairs, I looked at my mom and felt something eat me from the inside.

My mom looked at me lovingly, warm, and hopeful. She had brown wavy hair framing her fair face and a smile so different from mine. She just looked so alive until I caught her eye.

I frowned upon witnessing the bags under my mother's eyes; she had been crying, presumably because of dad. Unable to look her in the eye, I diverted my attention to the door, fidgeting under the weight of her stare. "I'll be going out now, mom. Don't wait up." "But-", "It's okay, they serve great mac-n-cheese every Monday." I deadpanned, feeling my mother's disappointment.

Ever since my dad and my mom started to fight, I drifted away from this familial bond; always in pain; always a failure; always alone. This isn't as bad as you think it is; like what my favorite hero, Sherlock Holmes, said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." He has a point. When everyone leaves you in the dark; to whom do you turn to? I turn to the shrouds of loneliness; the only thing that truly stays with me until the very end.

Oh, and the Mac-n-Cheese is horrible.

* * *

Half the classes in the morning – I barely paid any attention to. They recycle the same lesson every single year, letting our dull little minds believe that we learn something new when in fact, it's just an upgraded version of the base knowledge that we already have. It's as if it was already in our minds but we just didn't know how to use them until they made us realize certain topics and then putting yet another layer of boundaries so that next year, we'll have something "new" to learn. For a world wanting to advance and get closer to the future, it sounds a little lazy.

Math – it always will be addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division; they only added letters but the same fundamentals apply. It irritates me to no end that teachers and books always throw in fancy terms to make their lessons seem interesting. It doesn't make anything better; it doesn't pique our interests; it only confuses us.

The bell rings and I have seemingly dozed off during History class. Something about Christopher Columbus is written on the board. Yes, Christopher Columbus, again. And an assignment on how the world was proven to be a sphere. It's always like this. Teacher gives a lesson. Teacher then gives an assignment related to the next topic. The basic teacher kit.

The _routine_.

It's driving me crazy. My eyes squint at the sight of sunlight pouring out from the window that is unluckily enough, where I sit beside. I saw my classmates rushing out of the room; 20-something people running towards the arms of their friends who back stab them every now and then. I see their fake smiles and fake interests and fake movements and I almost vomit at the sight. Why would I need enemies if I had friends like them? The teacher looks at me, confusion all over her wrinkly face and messy bun. She looked like she was about to say something not before I make the first move. "Yes, Ms. Hartley, there is an assignment and I do know that Christopher Columbus discovered America by accident." I tell her, almost like a programmed machine; my eyes never leaving her green and tired ones. Satisfied, she smiled and walked out the room.

I sat there for a while, motionless, and felt an itch bubble up my throat. The itch signaled me that I haven't smoked in a while. Coughing, I stood up; grabbed my bag and went directly to the cafeteria.

* * *

Why did there always have to be a clique? I look across the tables and I see groups huddled in circles. Do people really need to leech off someone else to feel like they had a purpose? Pathetic. I looked to my right, girls laughing in a manner so forced; Luke Skywalker would get beaten. Looking at them telling jokes told over a hundred times and talking about a love life that will only end in bittersweet tragedy; a few cuts on their wrists; and of course the process of moving on. I breathe in a puff of smoke. I never had to do that. Friends were sentimental. We all know that sentiment always leads to a great disadvantage, don't you agree? If it weren't for this sentiment, a lot of movies would've ended a whole lot quicker. IF this cliché was to be erased from our minds, things would've been simpler. I look up at the sky, letting its natural blue hue sink in my head. I had a lot of questions. Like, why is blue – _blue?_ Why do I have to hide my smoking just because they expect so much of me? Why does caring make us _human?_ Why do I _bleed?_

Bleed. I always bleed. I bleed every night, don't you know?

Every time I have to listen to my parents fight, my heart bleeds from too much pain. They always fight over the same thing; over and over and over again like a broken stereo. My parents would fight it out even in things that aren't even that important. Say, a lost car key would lead to accusations of my dad being with another woman. Financial problems would lead to my mom's fault of spending too much. They always find ways to fight and every single time, I am forced to listen. Every time I hear them say it's _my_ fault on why they're separating, my mind bleeds from too much wondering _why?_ I do my best to be as good as I can be. I'm already at the 2nd spot of my class; already bagging contests and making the school proud but this won't ever be enough, would it? I always ask myself on why I could be the reason for their separation; several hypotheses would face me but the most probable one screams at me in bold, red colors, "YOU ARE A MISTAKE." Am I? Am I the biggest mistake they've made? Every time I cut, I bleed. Literally. Frowning, I pulled up the long sleeves, revealing about 7 cuts, some fresh and new; some dried and old. Each cut has a story; stories that start different but always end in the same form, in the same arm, in the same person. I wonder how much blood I wasted that could've saved a dying leukemic person.

I'm such an ungrateful bitch.

The sound of the bell resonates throughout the field and I burn out the cigarette. Walking towards the class hallways, I bump into a figure. Knowing that English is next as well as a book report in the said subject, I didn't have time to look at his face. I muttered an apology and headed my way. Only after I have sat down, listening to my classmates' desperate attempt to have a grade above 75 that I realized I haven't eaten anything during lunch.

So much for Mac-n-Cheese.

* * *

It was a crappy day. We didn't have science during Mondays which made the day worse. The hours passed by and finally, it was time I went home. Home. I stifled a laugh. Which is a better hell? To be forced to spend 10 hours cramming junk in your head to make you feel worn out, stressed, and crappy or to be forced to listen to your parents fight, fight, and fight? The streets were quiet as my steps grew heavier and heavier and heavier. The quiet autumn breeze swept the leaves in one place yet it scattered me in many. I don't want to go home. I don't. I don't. I don't. Biting down on my lower lip, I feel as if my body betrayed me. I held the knob of our house, a building as white as snow and a structure that resembled that of a haunted house. It may look haunted but it isn't what scares me. What scares me are the demons living inside. Everybody's got their demons, I guess it's time I faced mine. _Click._ Not a warm 'Hello.' Not a hug. Not even the house welcomed me. Here I was, alone, like always.

I rushed up the stairs and went into the bathroom, fumbling my bag for spare blades. Nothing. I couldn't find it. Tons of thoughts invaded my personal thinking space and one leads into another. The pros, the cons; the actions and their consequences. I panicked. I gulped down the anxiety threatening to color my face. It's okay. I'll find it. I always find it. If not, then, that's okay too; I can always buy a new set but what if- My head hurts from too much thinking. Cait, breathe in. I inhale and a sharp turn of breath enters my system. Breathe out.

It's going to be alright.

What if my mom found them and threw them all away? How could I tolerate their screams? They're going to scream at me and I would have to face them and, and, and-

How the hell would I find my escape?

"It must be here somewhere. Somewhere, somewhere." I threw everything out my bag, the insides cluttering to the side and relaxed when I found it. I let out a relieved sigh as hot tears slid down my face. When did I become so fucking weak? When did I become this addicted? When did I become so much of a destruction?

"What's wrong with me?" I whispered, imagining that someone was listening to me. I have never felt as alone as I was at that moment.

* * *

I liked it, no, I _loved_ it. I'd never admit it but I did. I liked the coolness of the floor; the sound of rushing water; the tangy smell of warm blood; the metallic texture and weight of the blade digging deep in my skin; the pain. I'd tell myself that it was because I was depressed or an insomnia cor mental, even;but deep inside, I knew the truth. My tongue spun webs of lies and it was my special way of feeling calm. It fascinates me how our bodies are nothing but shells of flesh and blood. We are nothing special; you'd think our emotions pour out every time we bleed, that our memories somehow infuse themselves within our systems but they don't. Sickness and pain do. And so every time the blade caresses my skin, I felt alive as the neurons crawl fervently, sending such a frenzy of messages to my brain. A flurry of pain, excitement, and shivers would spread throughout me. The feeling could never be matched by any other thing and so I hunger for more. More and more and more until my wrists turn blue and then I would be fascinated all over again.

You don't need crayons to color the Caitlin coloring set; just a pair of blades and you're good to go.

I could even recite the path from where I felt the pain, leading towards every single nerve, every receptor it goes through because I have always been in love with anatomy. The mere thought of life and death brings upon a tilt of my lips.

It was very interesting. Science had always been my favorite subject since I was a kid, except maybe for physics because up until today, I just didn't care about Newton, about gravity, or about mass, etc., I cared about life. I wanted to be a doctor someday, or a lawyer, or an accountant or…thinking about it made my head spin, so I settled for _dead_ , I wanted to be _dead_ someday. And I didn't know when, but someday, I know that I'll be lying down in some morgue - cold, lifeless, and worthless and having some sick pathologist examine my body head to toe; probably shaking her head at how much of a waste I'd become. I think about what the pathologist would say, " _Such a waste, she had such great_ potential." That's what they all say, isn't it? Oh, if only the dead could talk. What does Newton, gravity, force, have to say about that?

Looking down at my arms, pale, bloody, and looked like some kid's stick figure; I snorted; too many lines. I hated it, how it looked so messy; I liked the pain but I never liked how messy it got. The sink was full of my color, varying from maroon to an ugly red. My mom and dad are getting a divorce. It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. All the fighting, all the late night escapades; I wasn't a little kid and I had ears, eyes, and a brain. It's insulting that they think that I don't know; highly intelligent and they played me for an idiot. I thinks dad's not that good at his job either; a psychiatrist yet he can't even play the role for his daughter. No wonder, we were slowly doing budget cuts. Humming a nursery rhyme from when times were easier, I continued to cut and cut and cut until I began to sing, " _Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb."_

I was just sick and tired of the world I live in. Maybe, JUST MAYBE when I die, I'll live in another world, preferably without idiots running around. " _Mary had a little lamb whose-"_

"Fleece was white as snow."

* * *

I wasn't sure if it was the blood loss or the pills I drank; but I could definitely see a boy with brown hair and a piercing stare, around my age, standing by the door, watching me cut. Probably too much listening to artists like Halsey and Green Day. I was creeped out but I still wasn't sure if it was just my mind playing tricks so I continued with my act, a little light-headed. "You know, for someone who wants to die, you're doing it wrong." The boy smiled, not budging form the door frame. He was definitely real. Annoyed, I told him off, "What are you doing here? Actually, who the hell are you?" The blood loss sure took its toll because I felt myself getting dizzier and dizzier. I almost slipped when he caught me, a genuine smile on his face.

He felt warm.

Pushing him away, I let the bath sink support my weight and he took the blade from my hands and demonstrated it on his arm, the blade simply hovering an inch above his skin. His breathing was normal as if he did this a thousand times making me watch with interest and awe. "See, you should cut vertically and harder. They can't stitch that one up. You aren't doing death justice at all." He motioned it, slightly grazing his wrist and gave it back to me, chuckling.

"You can't tell me how to die."

"I can't, but you're not actually planning on doing it, so what's the point? Stop teasing death for God's sake." Frustrated, I pushed him away, mad. "Who are you anyway? And, how'd you get in here?" My brows furrowed at the figure who towered over me.

The boy merely smiled, "Hi, Ms. Suicidal. I'm Mr. Homicidal."

I didn't move, he was a stranger after all. He detected my stiffness and further explained, "I'm one of your daddy's patients? Kind of mentally unstable in the right places; killed a few things and well, my family decided that I should get therapy. I'm perfectly normal though." His voice was laced with a sort of optimism that was unexplainable. It was as if, he still saw the joy in his situation.

I didn't know how to react to his tone other than be irritated.

Dad had a patient? That's new. I felt blood trickle down my arm but I held my hand up anyway and shook his. He showed some kind of concern but I ignored it. I felt something, not exactly fireworks, but there was a spark; probably because his body was a lot warmer, a lot closer to life unlike mine; cold and dying. He pulled closer and whispered, "You're losing a lot of blood." I tried to struggle out of his grip but he was firm. His eyes searched the bathroom for something, anything to cover it up. I looked at him sharply but not at all expecting him to secure the scars with his handkerchief. The way he knotted it was messy. His voice sent shivers down my spine. "I don't even know you but why do I feel like I should?" I took this as a chance to lock my eyes with him and saw the same amount of sadness I wear. It only lasted for a split second because the next thing I knew, he was smirking.

All traces of that sadness was gone but I knew it was there. It really was. "I was once like you, suicidal so I'm kind of a master on this. And another advice, wouldn't want mommy or daddy seeing you cut, now, would you? Lock the door next time; that's how I got in anyway. See you tomorrow." He pulled away, patted my head and went out the door, his footsteps light. I didn't do anything at all other than let the silence sink in as the steps got lighter and lighter. I looked at myself in the mirror, at my cuts, at my reflection and replayed the boy's words over and over again as I undone his messy knot and placed his handkerchief aside. I instead focused on brushing my hands till they were raw and red, cleaning up every drop of blood from the sink and found myself smiling.

"Ms. Suicidal, huh? I like that."

I didn't cut afterwards.

* * *

This is the first ever fanfiction that I have written. Just putting it out there. It's just that I have been wanting to see a very angsty Caitlin about life, I don't know why. So, I wrote this in a version where Caitlin isn't as composed as she is in the show; she's a lot more pessimistic and realistic about the situation at hand as Barry, Barry will still be Barry. Minus the fact that he tends to be quite the little psychopath.

Also, I have based this loosely on the famous AHS: Murder House. You know, the wonderful and satisfying romance between Tate and Violet?

Reviews are appreciated as well as a hell lot of ideas because I don't exactly know where this is headed.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Science; the class that brought something interesting to the atmosphere of a boring workplace. Mr. Stein was rambling on and on and on about our brains being so powerful that we are currently using only a tenth of its whole capacity. Usually, I would be enchanted – attentively listening to the words that pour out of his mouth and intently observing the diagram shown on the board but I seemed to have lost my focus.

No matter how much I force myself to let the information of our Amygdala, Hypothalamus, and Cerebrum sink in – the boy just kept on invading my thoughts. He seemed familiar though; like I knew him already.

"Caitlin?" I heard my name being called but it couldn't snap me out of my trance. I didn't even realize that Mr. Stein had called me 3 times before finally putting a hand on my shoulder.

"I called you a couple of times already. Are you okay?" He looked at me like how a grandfather would look at his grandchild. He was old; silver hair sprang from above his ear and wrinkles spread across his face.

"Hm?" Looking up, I felt the weight of every single person's stare waiting for my next move. I have never dozed off during science class. Ever. I was the one to answer all the questions, the one to be in a heated debate with Mr. Stein. Not today. As I looked back at him; I wondered. Does he know? Does he know that I mutilate myself? Does he know that his star student is a weak and insufferable being who is as pathetic as the next? Does he know that I want to die?

I wanted to scream at him, tell him the truth, actually. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. I wanted to tell him that I'm not. Never was and never will be.

 _'I'm not.'_

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He asked me, wanting reassurance.

 _'I'm not okay. My parents are getting a divorce. I cut myself every night to ignore my real problems. I stress myself out with all the schoolwork you teachers give. I fantasize about my death each night and marvel at all my scars alone. Nobody knows. Except for some freak. So no, I'm not okay. DO YOU THINK I'M OKAY!?'_

"Sure, sir. Just a little dizzy. I haven't had much sleep the other night. I had to do projects and such but I assure you that I have been listening; the hypo-"

He smiled, "I do believe you. It just felt like you weren't yourself is all."

"Are you happy?" I asked a question not at all related to the topic.

He shrugged, "I guess."

Afterwards, he went on with his lesson and one by one their eyes left me. What kind of answer is, "I guess?" I guess I am or I guess I am not. Which is its tilt, positive or negative. A word, after all can change everything. Like when somebody asks you, "Do you love me?" When you answer with, "I guess I do", it's all good - happily ever after but when you answer using, "I guess I don't" then disappointment would be the receiver of you letters.

Don't you see? It's just balanced in every single way possible. 50 indicates the middle while the after or before part either adds positivity or subtracts it. I hear my classmates yelling out random answers and see specks of both disappointment and amusement in Mr. Stein's eyes.

"Is the brain important?" Silence reigned in the room.

"Caitlin?" This damn routine never changed. When no one can answer, the one who they feel like they could depend on will be the one they ask. Not even Mr. Stein could escape the grasp of sentiment.

I cleared my throat and answered in the most appropriate way possible. "Our brain defines us. It is the storage for our emotions. It AIDS us in what we do; allows us to think and observe. It controls our whole body and I am sure that without it, we are nothing. That's how important it is. It alters our perception on life, either turns us into a suicidal freak or a normal person. Our brain is US."

I have no idea on how I do that - turn my most violent thoughts into very hypocritical answers in the blink of an eye. I don't know how. Maybe I'm just good at lying. Mr. Stein looked pleased and my classmates couldn't care less.

"Mr. Stein, the brain is also important because without it, we can't think. We can't convey the thoughts that we wish to let other people know or well, as she said, 'turns us into a either a suicidal freak or a normal person'; we can't become who we would be without it."

Just like that, my whole world was thrown off its balance. I fisted my hands to my side and convinced myself that it isn't him but of course, of course it was.

All heads turned to stare at the person leaning by the door frame. "Sorry, a little bit late. Or 45 minutes late. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Stein, I—"

"That answer isn't as remotely close to being as clever as your previous answer; Mr…?"

"Allen. Barry Allen. A transferee from S.T.A.R University. And the real reason as to why I am late today is because I had to take care of some paper works. It won't happen again, professor; that much, I can promise you." He shuffled awkwardly and kept his head low. He acted nothing like how he approached me yesterday.

"Yes, well, Mr. Allen; next time, PLEASE try to arrive before the class starts and not AFTER."

Mr. Stein's comment earned snickers from around the class but I couldn't be more horrified. What is he doing in here? His eyes roamed the room and once it landed on mine, his lips twisted into something between a smile and a smirk.

I swore I saw him laugh but I couldn't bring myself to look because I felt uncertain. I don't know why. Uncertainty in myself and in him. The bell rung and it signaled the end of the day.

As always, I sat there until all of them went out. Mr. Stein always goes out first followed by one Barry Allen, presumably because of some papers regarding his transfer. He acted like we didn't know each other and that's more than just comforting. I wouldn't want any one of my classmates to know what I do.

It's a terrifying note. One by one they went out and piece by piece I came to the conclusion that I don't know who I am.

Am I on the side of angels or am I on the side of Devils? Am I good, am I bad? Too much lies obliterated me. I am sure of one thing though. I'm pretty damn sure that I'm suicidal. Pretty content with myself; I slid out the door, directing myself to the cafeteria where I smoked until I felt like myself again.

Ahhhhh. The sweet, sweet feeling of smoke destroying my lungs; death has never been as pleasurable as this.

* * *

The days at school were tedious, obvious, and predictable. Mr. Homicidal wasn't as much as a nuisance as I thought he would be. Both of us acted like we never associated in any way. He even made new friends and doing way better than me in terms of my social circle.

I shuddered at the thought of a social circle. Then I felt kind of blank. I used to have a social circle. Until one of the three of us unexpectedly disappeared.

The weekends finally came. Dad was away, probably kissing some hooker as mom was getting her hair softened in a salon. I was sitting on my bed, reading a textbook for an exam for the third time. People think that if you're an honor roll, you'd love studying but you don't. I hated school, the system, I mean, what kind of teenager doesn't?

What's the use of putting pressure on children, it breaks us, or that's what I thought.

"The bones of the body are full of calcium…"I trailed off, lost in the blaring music of my headphones. I used to put those headphones on my ears only because I was forced to. Nobody likes to listen to their parents screaming their lungs out at each other.

I remembered the first time I listened to Halsey. I was trying to study but my nosy parents kept on banging on my room; yelling and screaming, annoyed, I searched for an escape. I tried to read but couldn't. I tried to recite the human anatomy but I couldn't. I tried to draw but couldn't. So I stumbled upon my unused headphones and put it on. The first thing that loaded on the YouTube page was Halsey's song, Young God. I fell in love with it since then; how raw the lyrics felt. Since then, I learned how to cut, to smoke, to drink, and to feel empty. Living in this world, being able to feel; I wasted it.

I felt my headphones being taken away from me. As I looked up, I saw the same dark eyes of Mr. Homicidal smiling at my hazel ones.

"This is my room. This is personal invasion." I said, sitting up, and snatching the said headphones from the boy's hands but he wouldn't give it to me.

"I'm lonely. Talk to me."

"You have my dad for that. Now go and cry and share whatever psychological issue you have with him; not me." I harshly stated. His face didn't show anything but sheer amusement.

"Let's talk about something." He continued bugging me.

"Anything." Giving up, I agreed.

"Fine, let's talk about how creepy it is for a deranged stranger to walk in a teenage girl's room and demand a conversation."

"I'm technically not a stranger, I mean; we share about 3 classes together and each class, you manage to almost always ignore me. But I have to say, you're smart. Highly intelligent and unquestionable too. Tell me, how does it feel not being able to say what you want to say? The answer on brain; I knew you were thinking something different. So, how does it feel?" His emerald eyes flashed and his tone was far from threatening but I can't help but feel a shiver run down my spine.

I flinched and that seemed like a sign for him to back off.

"Boring, let's talk about scars."His voice echoed as his mood shifted in a snap. For the first time, I actually felt something pull myself closer to the boy.

"What's the deal?" We both sat down on the floor, the carpet sharing dust with our clothes. "Cait." His gaze was odd. It felt like it could burn me alive and the fact that my nickname slid off his tongue so easily made my ears burn.

"Don't." I gritted out the word. He looked at me. "I hardly think it's important. So-", pulling up the long arms of his sweater, he showed me a burn, a fresh red burn on his wrist. "Cigarette burn. Blades bore me." Taking off the 5 bracelets on my right wrist, I showed him numerous cuts. "Cuts, last week, but someone interrupted me." I smiled as he laughed again, "It was because you were doing it wrong. Have some respect for the dead." I joined in his laughter this time.

It's been a long time since I felt this happy.

* * *

"I actually used to be like you – suicidal – really. I began giving away my stuff, ran away, and then you know, put a bullet in my brain but it didn't really work out because-", he motioned to himself as I locked my eyes with his, "I'm alive today. The stupid gun didn't blow my head off." We sat there, facing each other and I looked deeper and deeper in his eyes. Despite his boyish smile and his positive vibe, I couldn't see any of those.

 _Nothing_. I saw nothing, broken and haunted.

"It's funny because you want to die and I want to see someone's life fading in my hands. A sadist and a masochist, huh, must be fate. Homicidal and Suicidal. I tried it before - a fight." He was serious this time, hints of madness showing in his face.

I wasn't afraid though, I was curious. "What happened?" He looked at her, "Nothing much, just stabbed him a couple of times in his arm with a pen. We weren't friends after that and I was suspended. Dad…" I saw hesitance flick over his features.

"Never mind." He finished, a little distraught.

"What's with the nickname – Mr. Homicidal? Shouldn't it be Mr. Suicidal too?"

"Let me finish. I get off when I kill. Suicide just wasn't enough for me anymore. I don't like cutting myself – too slow and painful. By accident, I killed a cat but once I felt its blood stain my fingers. It was wonderful, so warm – so refreshing. And from that moment on, I decided I liked killing more. It's a bad, bad way to go around." I couldn't help but notice just how animated he looked like once the topic of killing was brought up.

I liked it.

I made no sound but asked, "Do you hurt others because you feel guilty about something?"

He flashed me a cheeky smile, "You act so much like your dad, you know? Always asking me about my gory fantasies; well, doctor, I'll have you know, I'm fine now, just targeting little fantasies. I'm not guilty, I just feel like experimenting. And as much of a psycho I am, I suddenly feel lighter talking to you."

I felt something drop in my stomach, a huge question, how could someone like me inspire someone else to live?

"Well, it's past 4 already, _Dad's_ going to think I murdered someone at this hour." He joked and rushed out the door not without whispering a 'thank you' and a 'good bye'.

"Oh wait. I just remembered, I don't have a dad. Just some foster substitute." Barry breathed out. So, family issues too. We had a lot more in common than I thought. As the boy walked out, I opened up my text book and began reading in the unit of physics.

I felt the sudden urge to understand Newton now because I couldn't understand the gravity that pulled and tugged on my stomach earlier. I studied and studied and studied until I finally understood gravity.

Everything, no matter how heavy, how light, falls.

I didn't sleep that night nor did I cut nor took any pills.

I felt happy.

* * *

Aaaaaaand that's it. Thanks for all the reviews and all necessary support. I really really do appreciate them all. And yes, this fic is a little bit weird. Okay, it's weird. Really, really weird and I should have given some kind of heads up and for that, I'm sorry. It's just that I just wanted something new.

Also, thank you so much for the advice, **Bluedog270,** I kept in mind.

Thanks to all who reviewed! I'm kind of awkward at saying my thank yous. So. Again, thank you to: **ShanouNash** , **MissingBrittana** , **Bluedog270** , and **Guest** , and another **Guest**.

You people make me smile.

I'll try to update as soon as possible. Tell me what you think, okay? Be honest. Be BRUTALLY honest, if needed. I don't want to be serving you crap now, do I?


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